


Exercise In Frustration

by Iverna



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-25 13:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iverna/pseuds/Iverna
Summary: “I’ve made a decision regarding Emma: I’m going to back off.”Killian meant the promise. But Storybrooke is a very small town, and it’s hard to avoid the sheriff... who is noticeably preoccupied these days. And getting more than a little frustrated with the far-too-attractive pirate who keeps running into her and refusing to flirt with her. (Season 3 canon divergence, post-Neverland... no Pan, no new curse, just Emma being distracted by Hook despite everyone’s best efforts, much to Neal’s chagrin and David’s confusion.)





	1. Chapter 1

Neal knows that the date is going badly when the only thing Emma talks about at any length is how Killian taught her to use a sword on the way to Neverland.

And how he really isn’t like the Captain Hook she read about as a kid.

And how he doesn’t seem very happy to be back here—has Neal noticed?

Neal _has_ noticed, but he thinks that it might have more to do with Killian’s decision to back off than anything else.

Not that the gesture seems likely to do any good. Neal still wants this to work, but he can’t deny that it all feels a little... stilted. Emma is gorgeous, he’s the first to admit it, and he does love her, but he still catches himself thinking of Tamara. Feeling a stab in his chest at everything that happened there.

Maybe he has the wrong expectations, maybe he’s just messed up too much, but it doesn’t feel natural, being with Emma. It feels forced. Like they’re going through the motions, for Henry’s sake.

And maybe, just a little bit, because he doesn’t want to lose to Killian Jones.

Across the bar, Ruby has got bored, and started up the jukebox. Petula Clark starts playing in the background, and Ruby gets back to work, smiling and humming along.

“How’s Henry?” Neal asks. “Really?”

Emma seems to relax, a smile spreading over her face. “He’s settling in okay. We’re still sort of working out the schedule, Regina and me, I mean. We never really had a proper arrangement, but I guess we’re co-parenting now.”

Neal nods. “Co-parenting with the Evil Queen. Who’d have thought, huh?”

Emma huffs out a laugh. “Right. I just try not to think about... that.”

“What?”

“Y’know, all the fairytale stuff. It’s a lot easier when it’s just... Regina. Killian. Mary Margaret. You know.”

“Yeah,” Neal says, even though he doesn’t. He didn’t grow up reading fairytales. He grew up _in_ a fairytale. He might have spent several years in this realm, but everything from back home isn’t nearly as outlandish to him as it is to Emma.

The jukebox changes songs. Etta James begins to sing.  _“I don’t want you to be no slave..._ ”

Right on cue, the door opens. Sunlight floods in, and Killian Jones steps into the diner.

_“I don’t want you to work all day...”_

He checks on the threshold, assessing the place. Ruby looks up and smiles at him; the few other patrons in the diner glance over, too.

_“But I want you to be true...”_

His eyes flick to Emma for the briefest instant, then to Neal. The muscles in his cheek tighten.

_“And I just wanna make love to you...”_

He shifts his weight into a swagger, and walks past without so much as another look in their direction.

“Whoah.” Emma sounds a little breathless. She clears her throat. “What’s up with him?”

Neal looks across the diner to where Killian is leaning against the counter, scowling at nothing in particular, and shrugs. “Uh, I dunno.”

“He looks...” Emma glances over her shoulder. Her gaze lingers until she seems to remember why she looked. “Uh, annoyed. Moody.”

“When isn’t he moody?” Neal says lightly. Killian might not have invented the melancholy smoulder, but he has sure as hell perfected it.

“No, I mean more than usual,” Emma insists.

Neal shrugs again and tries to segue back to talking about Neverland, but he constantly has to repeat himself because Emma’s attention keeps drifting. Every now and again, a flash of blue in the corner of Neal’s vision tells him that Killian is looking over, and part of him feels triumphant—he’s here with Emma, and Killian is not—but another part is starting to get irritated.

Especially since Emma keeps finding excuses to glance over at the counter, which never fails to prompt Killian to glare down at his beer.

“Emma?” Neal asks finally, his irritation spiking.

“Huh?”

“Are you listening at all?”

“Yeah, of course,” Emma says quickly, clearly scrambling to remember what he just said. “Sorry, I just... are you sure he doesn’t look, I don’t know, off, to you?”

Neal sighs.

 

*  *  *

 

There is always a crisis. Emma counts her blessings that these days, they tend to be small ones. Petty squabbles between Storybrooke’s residents, little rivalries, pets going missing (or, in the case of one cat, learning to open doors and windows and robbing half the neighbourhood).

And, of course, pirates.

He’s everywhere she turns. Not on purpose; in fact, she might think he was trying to avoid her, if she weren’t constantly running into him anyway. It just... happens.

And it happens at the worst times, too. Such as when he’s working on his ship, in his shirtsleeves, halfway up the rigging and stretching to reach some part of the sail or a rope or something, Emma has no idea. The point is, he’s up there, looking perfectly at ease and competent and capable. And he clambers down with sure movements, hand and hook steady on the ropes, muscles working under that ridiculous shirt.

The way he moves is just another irritating, fascinating, tempting thing about him. It makes her want to push him, or pull him to her, try to unbalance him. It wouldn’t work; she remembers with perfect clarity how he leaned into her and caught her, swaying with her as she kissed him, his hand coming up to caress her face...

It wouldn’t work, but she wants to try it again anyway.

He swaggers down the ramp of his ship with a guarded expression on his face, eyes flicking from Emma to David and back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’re here about Mr. Walker’s boat,” David says, without preamble.

“The _Rosalee_?” Hook says, and it shouldn’t surprise her that he knows the boat’s name, but it does. “Aye, what of her?”

“It—she—it’s missing,” David says.

Hook smiles without humour. He’s wearing suspenders. There are suspenders draped over his shoulders, holding his perfect-fitting leather pants in place. It shouldn’t be allowed for a man to make _suspenders_ look good. “So naturally, you ask the pirate?”

His tone helps Emma remember why she’s here. “No, naturally, we ask the guy who hangs around here and might’ve seen something.”

He looks at her. She meets his gaze. She can’t read his expression, but his eyes seem to connect to hers in a way that leaves sparks everywhere, and it really isn’t fair that he looks so good when he’s windswept and a little sweaty and they’re barely even friends.

He clears his throat. “I’m afraid I haven’t,” he says. “But I do know a thing or two about ship theft,” the corner of his mouth kicks up, and Emma’s heart rate follows suit, “and I’d be delighted to lend my expertise.”

David doesn’t look all that convinced of Hook’s qualifications, but Emma accepts, and Hook comes through.

Later, when she’s having dinner with Neal and Henry in Granny’s, she tells them about it. Because, really, it was pretty damn funny when she and Hook stole the boat back from the kids who’d planned on taking it for a joyride.

“Is that official police procedure?” Neal asks, looking amused against his will as Henry laughs.

“Neal, _nothing_ I do is official police procedure,” Emma says. “There _is_ no official protocol for literal cat burglars or kids getting kidnapped through a magic portal.”

“Fair point. I guess you get to make your own procedures, huh.”

Emma laughs. “Think I better not. If I make it official procedure, Hook’s never gonna help me again.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t put ‘recruit the pirate’ into the rulebook.”

She laughs again. “Yeah. You know, he was grumbling the whole time about helping law enforcement.”

“Oh, I’m sure he didn’t actually mind helping you,” Neal says a little stiffly.

Emma feels a blush creeping up her neck. He’s right. Hook was in his element, taking over command as they stole back the boat, and it felt almost like a game. She can’t remember the last time she had so much fun on the job. Or anywhere, really.

Damn him.

The bell jingles, and Tink hurries into the diner. She waves at them, before making her way over to the counter, where Hook is sitting alone.

Emma’s stomach performs a complicated sort of manoeuvre that she doesn’t like at all.

 _Damn_ him.

 

*  *  *

 

The concept of _dating_ is new to Killian, and he’s not entirely sure he understands it. It seems to be this realm’s version of courting, though the rules and etiquettes elude him. He does know that it often involves having lunch or dinner or just coffee together. Much like Emma and Neal have been doing.

He _hates_ dating.

“So,” Tink says cheerfully as she joins him at the bar. “Moping again, are you?”

Killian glares at her. “I am not.”

“Sure,” Tink says, unconvinced, before turning to Granny. “Can I get a hot chocolate? And one of those chocolate-glazed donuts, please. Hook, I know moping when I see it, and you are moping.”

“Emma having dinner with Neal,” Granny supplies, far too knowing.

“Ahh. Of course.” Tink grins at him. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, she’s also waxing poetic about her little piracy adventure.”

Killian doesn’t believe that for a minute. Emma is many things, but given to verbose flights of fancy she is not. “The day Swan _waxes poetic_ about anything, I’ll eat my hook.”

“You know, it’s just dinner,” Tink says bracingly. “It’s probably for Henry’s sake.”

“I’m not really interested,” Killian says, leaning towards her slightly and trying very hard to stop thinking about how exactly Emma is looking at Neal. She was smiling a little while ago, and he’d swear that he caught the hint of a blush before Tink interrupted him.

Not that he’s been looking. It’s just that they’re sitting in his field of vision, and the light keeps catching Emma’s hair and drawing his attention, so he’s looked over a few times. Well, maybe half a dozen times. Per minute.

He dredges up a smile for Tink. “I’m more interested in what _you’re_ doing here.”

Tink raises her eyebrows. “Trying to cheer you up.”

He grins. “Concerned about my welfare, are you?”

Across the diner, Emma seems to have gone oddly still. Not that he can really tell, since he’s looking at Tink. But there’s definitely a stillness in his periphery. And he suddenly feels very guilty.

“Yeah, actually,” Tink says, and it’s her turn to scowl at him. “Even if you are being a complete idiot right now. I _like_ Emma, you know. I’m not gonna help you try to make her jealous.”

“I’m not trying to make anyone jealous,” he protests, trying to keep the smile on his face. It’s the truth, too. The problem is that if he _doesn’t_ flirt with Tink, and Ruby, and Granny, they keep trying to talk about Emma. And he doesn’t want to talk about Emma. He wants to stop looking over at her, stop wondering about what-ifs and maybes. Stop replaying that damned kiss in his mind. Stop trying to figure out how she feels about Neal, whether he’s doing the right thing by backing off, whether he has a chance despite it.

“Yeah, well, think about this,” Tink says fiercely. “Do you really want her to feel the way you feel when you see her with Neal?”

The guilt weighs heavier. Tink is right. Maybe Emma doesn’t care who he flirts with, but maybe she does, and if so...

He really doesn’t want her to feel the way he does when he sees her with Neal. He’s had his share of enemies on whom he’d wish that, and worse—but not Emma.

He leans back, scowling.

Granny reappears and hands Tink her donut, and a mug of hot chocolate. “Chin up, Captain. I’m rooting for you and Emma, you know.”

“There is no me and Emma,” he insists, teeth gritted.

They both laugh at him.

“The way she’s not quite glaring at me says otherwise,” Tink says.

He can’t take this right now. He’s been trying not to get his hopes up, and he’s damned if he’s going to let anyone else do it for him. He sets down his glass and stands up. “I apologise,” he says to Tink. “Excuse me.”

And he walks out of the diner with all the dignity he can muster, without so much as a glance at Emma along the way.

 

*  *  *

 

It takes Emma no time at all to realise that Hook has stopped flirting with her. He’s perfectly polite and friendly, he goes out of his way to greet Henry and ask him how he’s getting on and showing him tricks that a twelve-year-old probably shouldn’t know... but he hasn’t broached the subject of winning her heart. Not once.

Neal, on the other hand, is trying his best. And Emma appreciates it, and it’s sweet, it really is—he’s trying to make amends for what he did, and it’s not healing exactly, but it’s closure. It’s nice, to know that he didn’t just give up on her because he’d had enough. It’s _really_ nice to feel like maybe she’s worth sticking around for, after all.

And he’s a good friend, really.

But whatever spark there may have been once, it’s thoroughly gone. She doesn’t need to date or kiss him to make sure. Not when the perfect example of how it should feel keeps standing in the background, looking like _that_.

And that seems to be happening a lot.

If she walks into Granny’s to get a sandwich, he’s leaning against the counter. If she patrols down by the docks, he’s on his ship, working or talking to one of the fishermen. If she visits the library to ask Belle about books on magical theory, he’s lurking between the shelves, engrossed in a novel and turning the pages by curling a finger around the edge in a way that has her forgetting what she came in here for. She runs into him while picking up Henry at the bus stop, or popping into the store for milk on her way home.

She would accuse him of doing it on purpose if he were using it as an excuse to flirt with her, but he doesn’t. His eyes linger in a way that has her bracing for a teasing remark or some innuendo, but he never follows through.

It’s driving her crazy.

 

*  *  *

 

“Emma?” David asks. He’s leaning against the door of her office, one hand on his hip. Neal is sitting on the spare chair. He volunteered to help them with the most recent burglary case, given his own experience with it, and they’ve been discussing strategies.

Emma is pretending to rifle through her desk drawer. She meant to look for a new pen, but instead, she found the scarf that Hook used to bandage her hand.

She doesn’t know why she kept it. She shouldn’t have kept it. It smells like sweat and rum and iron, and she can’t look at it without remembering the look in his eyes when he’d wrapped it around her hand. Those blue eyes staring up at her through inky black lashes as he used his mouth and his fingers to tie it, his breath warm on her skin.

“Emma?” David says again.

“Huh?” she asks, trying to fold the scarf into a corner of the drawer.

“We were just thinking we could train seagulls to help flush out the burglar,” Neal says.

“Sounds good,” Emma says absently, thinking about the sting of rum, about calloused fingers wrapping around hers. Then the words penetrate, and she snaps her head up. “Wait, what?”

David chuckles in a bemused sort of way, shaking his head. “Welcome back.”

Emma grabs a pen, and slams the drawer shut.

This has got to stop.

 

*  *  *

 

“I am not,” Killian says, “going back on my word.” He looks indignant at the mere suggestion of it.

Neal raises sceptical eyebrows. “Yeah? Then how come I haven’t been able to have a single conversation with Emma lately that doesn’t involve you?”

Killian frowns at him. “What?”

It’s on the tip of Neal’s tongue to say that Emma can’t seem to stop herself from mentioning Killian at least once in every conversation, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he just shakes his head, annoyed. “You’re just always _there_!”

“You’ll have to forgive me for being unable to turn invisible,” Killian snaps, looking as frustrated as Neal feels. “I’ve not so much as paid her a compliment since I gave you my word that I wouldn’t. Ask her.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass,” Neal mutters, running a hand through his hair.

It isn’t working, this thing with him and Emma. Not only is it not working, some deep-down, honest part of him keeps whispering that maybe he doesn’t even want to work. And _that_ brings a tide of guilt with it, because he wants his kid to have a mother and a father.

“Sorry,” he adds, because Killian is still looking a bit outraged at having his honour thrown into question. He’s always been big on honour. And he really _isn’t_ encouraging Emma’s attention these days, if Neal is to be honest. He’s been trying to ignore that, because he doesn’t like what that implies at all, but it’s getting difficult not to realise that it doesn’t matter whether Killian “pursues” Emma or not.

But that’s not Killian’s fault. He’s a pretty decent guy, really, all things considered.

“Just making sure,” he adds.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma isn’t annoyed that Hook has stopped flirting with her. It’s a relief, really. She doesn’t need his ridiculous charm and stupid innuendo in her life.

She just wishes he wasn’t everywhere she goes.

“What are you doing _here_?” she bursts out in exasperation as she walks into the mayor’s office only to find Hook waiting in the corridor, leaning back against the wall. It’s annoying. Everything about him is annoying. The way he insists on wearing his pirate outfit, the way he can’t seem to close half the buttons, the way his face is falling into his face. She keeps wanting to brush it back. And bury her fingers in it.

He raises an eyebrow. That’s annoying, too. Emma adds it to her mental list. “Waiting for her Majesty. What are _you_ doing here?”

Emma frowns at him. “ _I’m_ supposed to meet her here.”

He scowls at that, though whether it’s her combative tone or Regina’s apparent scheduling issues, she can’t tell. Then he smirks. “I was here first.”

That gets her hackles up. “What are you, five years old?”

“I assure you, I’m a fully-grown man,” he drawls, and it might be flirting and it might not be, and the fact that she’s desperately hoping that it is only serves to infuriate her more.

“Are you? ‘Cause you aren’t acting like it!”

His eyes flash, and she feels a corresponding flash of triumph, because she got him. She pierced that nonchalant facade of his.

“No?” His voice is lower, and he’s no longer leaning against the wall, he’s leaning towards her. “Tell me, how does a man act, in your esteemed opinion?”

They’re face to face now, and Emma can’t remember how they got here. They’re glaring at each other in the narrow hallway, and his eyes are angry and very blue against those dark, furrowed brows, and she can’t seem to look away.

“Well, this looks promising,” comes Regina’s wry voice.

Emma and Hook step back in unison. Regina breezes past them towards her office. “Come on in,” she calls. “I want to talk to both of you.”

Emma glares after her, but there’s nothing she can do. She could leave, but after the argument they just had, that feels far too much like conceding defeat. And anyway, leave for what reason? Because Hook is here?

Ridiculous. She doesn’t care that he’s here.

Hook pivots on one heel, and gestures for her to precede him into the room with the most sarcastic bow that Emma has ever witnessed.

She raises her chin, and walks past him into the office, wishing she could just sink into the ground instead.


	2. Chapter 2

A few days after his chat with Killian, Neal comes to a halt on the sidewalk, Henry at his side, at the sight of Emma following Killian out of the library. She looks livid. Killian turns to face her—and they start _arguing_ , in low tones that quickly grow louder.

“What’s going on?” Henry asks, looking a bit concerned.

Ahead, Emma throws both hands up in exasperation. Killian leans back, performing something like a full-body eye roll. The few passers-by on the streets are giving them curious glances, but seem to decide that the Savior having a fight with Captain Hook is none of their business.

Neal shakes his head. “No idea, buddy. Let’s just—”

But at that moment, Emma leans in to hiss one last remark at Killian, and storms past him and towards Neal and Henry.

“Let’s go,” she orders, looking furious. Her eyes are bright, and her cheeks red, and Neal can’t help thinking that she looks somehow satisfied, like the fight has given her energy.

He casts a furtive look back at Killian, who’s glowering after Emma, jaw clenched.

It should reassure him. Instead, he just feels unsettled.

Especially when Emma fumes quietly all through dinner, and makes a couple of jokes about arrogant men that are a little too pointed. To Neal’s own surprise, he keeps having to swallow back the urge to defend Killian. He might swagger around full of bravado, but he isn’t arrogant, not really. He’s a good guy who’s made some bad choices—and Neal can’t cast any stones when it comes to that.

He didn’t want them to get together. He didn’t want Killian to win. But he doesn’t want this, either. It’s starting to dawn on him that it isn’t about winning, or losing. It’s about atoning for his past mistakes. About making Emma happy.

And this... this isn’t making Emma happy.

 

*  *  *

 

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says carefully as she and Emma walk towards the loft, “is everything okay?”

“Hmm?” Emma’s mind has been stuck on the encounter with Hook she just had. She didn’t mean to start another argument. It was just, he’d been right there, ordering a black coffee, so she’d remarked on his lack of imagination, and he’d assured her that he had plenty of imagination, and there hadn’t been a hint of innuendo in his voice but it was there, she _knew_ it was there, and...

Mary Margaret just asked her a question.

“Uh, yeah,” Emma says. “Fine.”

“With Hook, I mean,” Mary Margaret clarifies. “Has he done something?”

“What?”

“You’re clearly angry at him,” Mary Margaret says. “I thought he’d changed, but Emma, if he’s done something—”

“What? No, god, it’s nothing, he’s not... he just...” Emma lets out a breath. “He’s annoying.”

Mary Margaret looks at her for a long moment, and Emma swears she can see understanding dawn in her mother’s green eyes. Understanding, and very definitely a wrong conclusion. “I see.”

“It’s not like that,” Emma protests.

Mary Margaret raises her eyebrow, calmly innocent. “Like what?”

Emma grinds her teeth together.

 

*  *  *

 

The next time Emma walks into Granny’s to pick up her son, she finds him sitting in a booth with Hook. There’s a plate of fries between them and they’re playing some sort of dice game.

Hook has a smile on his too-handsome face, his eyes bright, like he’s genuinely enjoying Henry’s company. He’s good with the kid. He has probably answered a million questions about sailing by now, he shares stories—heavily sanitised, Emma is sure—of his adventures, he teases Henry about becoming the greatest swordsman of all time, which makes Henry almost combust with pride.

Emma realises belatedly that Granny is watching her, and she’s smirking like Emma’s got a dumb expression on her face, so she schools her features into a wry smile. “Gambling?” she asks. “Really? Where the hell is Neal?”

“He had to run an errand,” Granny says. “Asked Killian to keep an eye on the boy.”

Only years of keeping her reactions in check keep Emma’s jaw from dropping.

Neal asked him for a favour. Of course he did. It’s not enough that Emma runs into him constantly as it is; now even _Neal_ is helping to make it happen. Not on purpose, but still.

Why is he always _there_ , with his face and his hair and his ridiculous earring that she wants to tug on and his jaw line that she wants to trace with her finger, or her lips...

Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s walking over to him.

“The point is,” he’s telling Henry, “you win.”

Henry appears to consider his words. “But does it count the same when you cheat?”

“That all depends on what you’re playing for, lad.” Hook grins at him.

The grin falters very quickly when he catches sight of Emma, and Emma feels a pang of loss. She likes his smile, and he keeps depriving her of it.

“You corrupting my son?” she asks. Too late, she realises that her tone is more accusatory than teasing, and that the last time she saw him, she yelled at him, and that he probably thinks she’s actually mad at him now.

“Just playing some dice,” he says casually. He’s leaning back in his seat, looking right at home here despite his pirate clothes and the hook that’s resting on the table. He’s giving her a defiant kind of look, and his jaw clenches as she watches, like he’s holding himself back from something.

She kind of wants to climb onto his lap. See how he reacts to _that_.

“Cheating at dice, you mean?” she challenges instead.

“Only a little,” Hook says, more than a little provocation in the glint in his eyes.

His eyes are intent on hers. She doesn’t look away. “So you _are_ corrupting my kid.”

“Preparing him for the world,” he corrects. “Better to do the cheating than to be cheated, wouldn’t you say?”

He looks like he’s enjoying himself. And Emma feels it, too, the swirl of tension around them settling into something more bearable as they trade verbal blows. “How about no cheating at all?”

He shakes his head. “Spoken like a true idealist. Someone always cheats, love.”

“I am _not_ an idealist.”

Henry turns in his seat to look up at Emma. “We’re just playing for fries,” he says, a note of pleading in his voice. “And I already ate.”

The realisation that Henry is trying to _protect_ Hook gives her pause. It’s not like she hates the guy. Sure, they argue, but that’s because he’s infuriating.

And because she can’t seem to stop herself from trying to find his buttons, and pushing all of them.

The diner door opens, and Neal comes in, followed by David and Mary Margaret. He comes to a stop when he sees Emma, his eyes flicking from her to Hook, suddenly looking worried.

Emma’s first thought is that he’s jealous. But no, he looks genuinely concerned. So does Mary Margaret. David, of course, just looks suspicious.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s going on?”

Emma takes a step back, crossing her arms. “Nothing.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Hook says, getting out of the booth. That brings him closer to Emma, and for a moment, he stops, looking down at her. He’s close enough to touch, close enough that Emma can smell leather and soap and more that she can’t quite place. She wants to lean closer, to figure it out. She wants to reach out and brush back that stubborn strand of hair that keeps falling into his face.

Hook’s lips quirk, like he’s about to say something, but instead, he squeezes his eyes shut briefly and moves past her.

Emma takes a much-needed breath and remembers that she’s standing in the middle of the diner and everyone is watching.

Hook moves over to the counter, and Ruby appears as if from nowhere, a teasing smile on her face.

Emma turns to Neal. “Since when do you ask Hook to babysit?”

“I just—” Neal still looks worried. “He offered, and he’s actually pretty good with kids, you know? He’s not a bad guy, Emma.”

He’s _defending_ Hook. To her. Emma can feel her eyebrows trying to reach her hairline. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of the guy.”

“I’ve come around,” Neal admits, maybe a little grudgingly. “I know, pirate, and we don’t have the best history, but he—he’s pretty decent, really. He helped us save Henry, right? And he’s sticking around, helping out... he even stepped back so you and me could have a chance. Even if that didn’t work out, but,” he smiles in a way that says it really is okay, “that’s not his fault, is it.”

Emma notes somewhere that this seems rather mature for Neal, and normally she’d notice it more and be happy about it, but her mind is still stuck.

“He _what_?”

“Said he’d back off,” Neal says, apparently oblivious to the rage that’s building up in Emma as the pieces fall into place. “To give you and me a chance, you know. For Henry. Hey, you okay?”

She’s angry. She’s livid, in fact. At Neal, for thinking he’s got some kind of claim on her. At Hook, for his dumb outdated ideas of being noble, for thinking that he could _ever_ be the reason why she and Neal aren’t going to work, for backing off while looking like _that_ and being someone she can actually depend on and have fun with and...

He made her a promise, damn it, and she’s going to hold him to it.

“I will be,” she growls. “Hook!”

He looks up as she stalks over to him, blue eyes widening in shock or awe or surprise or possibly all three. “What—”

“You,” she presses out, “are coming with me.”

And she grabs his hook, and drags him out through the door into the back.

 

*  *  *

 

“Swan, what the hell are you—”

She keeps walking until they’re almost to the back door, and then she turns and he almost runs into her. “Three things,” she says, and he looks worried now, and the fact that she can make this man nervous has her feeling like she could fly if she wanted to. “One, you’re an idiot. Two, you made me a promise, in Neverland, and I haven’t forgotten, and if you’ve changed your mind, you need to just _tell me_.”

It takes him a moment. Then he lets out a breath, his expression halfway between resigned and conciliatory. “I haven’t changed my mind, Swan. I meant it then, and I still do.”

“Neal says you told him you were backing off.”

“Ah.” He looks uncomfortable, like he always does when he’s been caught doing something decent. “Yes.”

“Why?” she demands.

He shrugs. “Because I wanted you two to have a chance to work things out without any interference from my part.”

“Well, we didn’t!” she snaps. “And I don’t need you making my choices for me!”

“I’m not!” he retorts, frustrated. “I just don’t want to tear apart another family!”

“We aren’t a family,” she snaps.

There’s a moment’s pause, where they almost glare at each other and the words settle between them.

“And you’re not the reason why,” Emma goes on, more quietly. “Got it?”

He almost smiles, and she knows it’s genuine from the way he tries to suppress it. “Got it, aye. Ah...” He peers at her, and it’s like he’s bracing himself for the next assault. “You said there were three things?”

She did say that, didn’t she? She can’t seem to remember the third thing now. Her heart has begun to pound in her ears. He hasn’t changed his mind. She’s still a bit mad, but mostly she’s relieved and breathless and terrifyingly, wonderfully close to him.

It’s been almost two weeks since Neverland. Two weeks of denial and learning a whole new dimension of the concept of longing. Trying not to look too closely at his face, or his chest, or any other tempting parts of his anatomy. Trying not to wonder what exactly that grin of his promises. Trying not think about him whispering filthy things to her in that delectable accent.

She licks her lips reflexively. And his eyes dip, just noticeably, watching her tongue and lingering on her lips. He swallows.

“Three...” Emma says, barely aware of what she’s saying.

She grabs his hook again and gives a tug, and moves her other hand to his neck, and leans up. Her lips meet his with a little more force than she intended, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses her back with just as much urgency, like he can’t not, like he’s been dying for this just as much as she has.

Like they’re still arguing, and he still wants to win.

It’s oil on the fire.

Her arms wind around his neck as she pulls him closer still, one hand digging into his hair. It’s soft, and thick, and just the right length to run her fingers through and pull a little, and the noise he makes when she does has her doing it again. His hook is pressing into the curve of her back, and his hand is wandering from her cheek to her temple to her hair and back.

And his lips, and his tongue... there’s that mix of demanding and gentle that she remembers so well, that heady rush of pure _want_ that leaves her knees a little shaky.

It’s everything she’s wanted for days, weeks, and maybe she’s a little rough, but Hook is equal to it. All those lingering looks, the tension, the dumb arguments, they all led up to this. Not a fight, but a battle of sorts. She wants to wreck him. Claim him. Get under that suave skin of his like she knows she can, like she did in Neverland.

Except this time, he’s not content to just let it happen.

He lets out a grunt when she pulls him closer, closer, and her back hits the wall as he follows her—he always follows her. And pushes back. Leather creaks. Fabric rustles. He presses closer into her, groaning into her mouth when she lifts her leg to brush the outside of his.

She breaks the kiss in order to brush her lips against his chin, along his jaw, and down his neck. She nuzzles into the dip of his collarbone, and he inhales sharply.

“Emma...”

“Mhmm.” His shirt is gaping open as usual, exposing pale skin covered with coarse dark hair that feels really good under her palm. His breath is coming faster, and she can feel the thud-thud-thud of his heart under her palms. She shoves the fabric further out of the way and kisses along his shoulder.

“Emma, love,” he says, sounding strangled and gloriously desperate. He slides his hand down, under her jacket, along the curve of her waist. She hums encouragement against his collarbone and surges back up to reclaim his mouth.

He tugs her top free of her jeans and shoved his hand under it, his skin rough and warm against hers, his touch sure. Heat is rising inside her, gathering in her belly, her chest, between her legs. She clutches his shoulders, fingers bunching up the fabric of his shirt, and he’s grinding his hips into her, both desperate to get closer. There's definitely a bulge there, between his legs, hitting her in just the right spot, but it's not enough. She wants more. She wants to get lost in this, in him. Just him, his arms around her, his mouth on her, his breath hard and fast in her ears. He’s solid and warm and real against her, and she’s clinging a little, but she can’t bring herself to care. She hasn’t felt like this in...

Well, ever, if she's honest.

“Hook—” She breaks off on a gasp as he rolls his hips into hers, slow and dirty and so damn good.

He pulls away a little, his chest heaving with every breath. “Killian,” he gasps out, voice low and insistent. “Please.”

“Killian,” she repeats, and it’s worth it just to see those lips curve into a smile. She smiles back, feeling right, and powerful, and just a little wicked. “Please.”

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, before leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. “Emma, I want—I’ve tried not to want, I swear, but I’m not that good of a man.”

The admission stokes the fire that little bit more. The thought of him—of _Killian_ —wanting her, genuinely, not just in the heat of the moment—

It's not just a thought, though. It's the truth. It's been in every sidelong glance, every lingering look, every touch or almost-touch that lasted just a little longer than necessary. Her knees are a little shaky with the relief of it, the sweet, aching, overwhelming knowledge that this is real. She can have this. His body is pressed against hers, his arm around her, every touch a promise of _more_ if she wants it, and she feels...

Too much. Not nearly enough.

And she’s sick of running from it.

“Good,” she manages, leaning up to nip at his bottom lip. If they weren’t in the hallway at Granny’s...

Her thoughts stall. Oh, shit, they’re in the hallway at Granny’s.

“Uh,” she adds, and leans away again, though she keeps her hands on his shoulders. “We should probably—get back in there, before they send out a search party—”

He nods. He looks wrecked, colour high in his cheeks, a dazed look in his eyes. She imagines she’s not much better. It’s taking everything in her not to lean back into him.

“Another one-time thing?” he says, and she’s not sure whether he sounds resigned or hopeful, but she swear she feels an actual tug at her heart.

She shakes her head. “N—well, I hope not.”

Before he can reply, she gives herself a mental kick and steps back, out of his arms. She misses his touch immediately, but if she doesn’t stop now, she might never stop, and she doesn’t want their first time to be a rough-and-ready thing against Granny’s back door. Granny probably won’t appreciate that, either, for all her smirks and suggestive comments.

“Come on,” she says, turning back to the diner.

And allows herself one more smile as, once again, he follows.

 

*  *  *

 

When they reappear, Emma’s eyes are bright, and she looks darkly satisfied. Hook is following in her wake, looking rather dishevelled. His hair is a mess, standing on end and falling into his face, and his shirt looks like he was in a fight and someone pulled at it. His cheeks are red, and a bruise is forming on the side of his neck.

Snow’s eyes widen. David frowns at his daughter in disbelief. Granny and Ruby exchange a look, both smirking.

“You okay?” Neal asks Killian, a little concerned despite himself, and fighting back guilt. Yeah, Emma has a temper, but he didn’t expect her to react like _that_.

 “Hmm?” Killian shakes his head, dismissing the question. “Oh, aye, never better.”

“Emma,” David says, a note of censure in his voice. “What happened?”

“Hmm?” Emma looks like she’s returning from some faraway mental land. Her cheeks are a little red, too, and her top is no longer tucked into her jeans. “Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing?” David shakes his head. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to blame Killian, or worry about him. “You don’t get into fights for no reason!”

“Fights?” Emma says blankly.

Killian clears his throat. “The important thing is, we’ve, ah, reconciled our differences. Though your concern is noted and appreciated, mate.” He smirks.

It occurs to Neal that it’s a little odd for Killian to look dazed by his own good fortune if he’s just been slapped around.

And that there is more than one way that a man might be left looking a little dishevelled. And smirking.

And that it isn’t usually violence that leaves a woman looking so satisfied.

His concern vanishes abruptly, leaving him wishing he hadn’t asked. Or looked. Or thought. Or said anything.

“Then why—” David starts, but Snow cuts him off. Her eyes are still wide, and she seems to have come to a similar realisation as Neal, because she’s already placed a restraining hand on her husband’s arm.

“David, I think they’ve sorted it out.”

“Oh, aye,” Killian says, at the same time as Emma’s, “Yep, definitely.”

David’s eyes, which have been flicking from Emma to Killian and then back, suddenly widen. “Wait a minute—”

Neal takes an involuntary step back at his tone. Killian doesn’t even flinch; if anything, his smirk grows wider. Emma is trying and failing to hide a smirk of her own, looking happier than she has in weeks.

And as David scowls at the man who has dared to touch his daughter and is clearly intending to do it again, Neal decides that he’s really quite okay with how it all worked out.


End file.
